


a universe of infinite expanse, nevertheless, my heart still gravitates towards yours

by MatildaSwan



Category: Holby City
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, F/F, enjoy the healing!angst, it's a Bernie exit fic y'all, preemptive episode tag for that scene of Bernie in the empty trauma bay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-09 20:32:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11676558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatildaSwan/pseuds/MatildaSwan
Summary: Bernie built a life for herself in Holby, a life she wanted to live while she waited in hope that Serena would come back. Then they tore it all down. She won’t stay to watch them take anything else from her.





	a universe of infinite expanse, nevertheless, my heart still gravitates towards yours

**Author's Note:**

> vague _Holby City_ + _Skins_ gen one finale fusion and, only vaguely following the rules of berena appreciation week, a fill for summer+reunion
> 
> shout out to Lo and Jess for being sweetpeas that can read sentences when I can't ❤️

Bernie looks around the empty space that used to be the trauma bay: it was theirs and then it was hers and now it’s nobody’s. Everything they worked for is nothing.

She built a life for herself here; took a job for her husband, stayed for herself, finally found herself and the woman she wanted to be. Rekindled with her children, found more of a family in Serena and her collection of waifs and strays—almost ruined both but came back in time to salvage it all—and built a life for herself strong enough to withstand the world falling down around her ears as it fell out from underneath Serena.  

Now Serena is gone, the kids have moved on to greener pastures as they grow, and the only one left is Jason. She feels like a sore thumb at weird angles whenever she tries to help him now, feels like she can’t do anything useful for him anymore, so she stays away.

Stays here for the trauma bay, for their ward, because she made a promise. She’d broken too many of those in her life to let this one go too. She kept it, as best she could, then they walked in and walked all over her. Walked behind her back to break her promise on her behalf.

She built a life for herself and they tore it all down. She won’t stay to watch them take anything else from her.

She purses her lips, clenches her fist, walks out of the empty trauma bay. Leaves it and Holby far behind her.

*

Bernie knows Serena is in France. Doesn’t know where exactly, just that she was traveling through the Southern vineyards on her way up from Marseilles, and that at some point she’ll end up in Paris. Bernie doesn’t know if Serena is already there, doesn’t know if she’ll ever even arrive, just that she planned to be there one day. That, in itself, is enough for Bernie.

She’s been this patient, she can wait a little longer. The rest of her life if she has to; she’s willing to wait that long.

She flies direct to Paris and navigates her way from Charles de Gaulle to the 6th arrondissement with relative ease. Stumbles through the conversation with her new landlord at the base of their building, stumbles her way up the narrow flights of stairs to her top floor apartment, stumbles her way through the furnished flat where nothing is hers and even less reminds her of home.

She crawls under sheets she’s never washed, lies on a mattress she never tested before she bought, and sleeps soundly in a city she’s never called home.

She wakes up. Tries to settle herself in. Eats breakfast on the balcony, tiny and cramped with potted plants she doubts she’ll manage to keep alive, sitting on weathered furniture munching on toast and staring at a pattern she’d never have chose. Stays sitting on the balcony to read the copy of yesterday’s paper the landlord left behind for her and finds herself pleased with the breadth of her vocabulary; laments over the state of the world while the bustle of busy streets wafts up to her top floor apartment.

She wishes she had something to work for, wishes this were more than a holiday, wishes she had something to do with her time beyond waiting. Wishes she had something to do other than think about Serena.

It’s as if every thought she’d pushed away before is racing to the forefront, as she unpacks the few things she brought with her, now she’s far away from Holby and doesn’t have work to keep her mind occupied. She wonders where she is, how she’s doing, if she’s okay. She hopes that Serena is okay, whatever she’s doing, wherever she is right now.

It stays like that for the rest of the week, thinking about Serena as she floats around the flat in her pants, living off dry toast and cigarettes.

For all she thinks about Serena, she doesn’t try to find her. Not yet. She isn’t ready to tell her she left Holby, that she won’t be waiting for her there if she ever goes back. Because if Serena asks her to go back, to go back and wait for her, she will. Anything Serena wants, she’ll do; but she isn’t ready to hear that request yet, so she isn’t ready to find Serena.

She has herself to worry about first.

*

She still puts off worrying until her loaf of bread runs out. Makes the effort to venture out of the flat, manages to avoid the neighbours on the way, follows her nose to a boulangerie around the corner and stocks up. Follows the foot traffic to a market street and heads back home with a new basket, full to the brim with fruit and a few books. She makes sure to leave space for a packet of cigarettes and paper; fills it in the café around the corner from her flat.

She spies a tourist map on the counter as she pays, thinks it might be an idea to make the most of this holiday, might be good to plan something to fill the vast nothingness she currently has. She slips the pamphlet into her pocket, puts her change in her wallet, hears the shop door ding on her way out.

She fumbles through the code to her building and walks up the stairs so fast her thighs burn. Puts her books on the shelf, her basket on the bench, and a bushel of apples in the fruit bowl. Turns the radio on to fill the flat with an orchestra, low and rumbling, and hums to herself as she goes out onto the balcony for a smoke.

She sits back in the weatherbeaten chair, dangles her feet over the balcony edge, and lights up. Exhales through the nose, looks out over the city, squints against the water shine from the summertime sun. Takes out the map of the city, marks all the sights she wants to see, all the places she’ll visit. She puts out her cigarette and promises the plants she’ll start working through the list tomorrow.

She goes back inside, looks around the flat, and doesn’t feel so adrift.

*****

It takes her a fortnight, to work her way through the list.

She starts to walk the city; starts under the Eiffel Tower and treads to the Arc de Triomphe before spending the afternoon in the catacombs. The contrast makes her teeth itch and she steps back into the light feeling a little on edge; goes home and puts the radio on to block out the buzzing in her ears. She catches herself chatting back to the presenter musing about Chopin as she makes dinner. She shakes her head at herself in embarrassment and smiles into the otherwise empty flat.

She walks around the Concorde for the morning, grits her teeth at the lengths of busy streets; exhales in the quiet alleyways, and the serenity of each church she visits. She finds the waxworks on her way home, manages to make the last tour of the day, laughs herself hoarse when one of the staff sneaks up on the most unsuspecting of the group while pretending to be wax until the last possible moment.

She makes a habit of visiting, as she moves on to the art houses on her list, manages to hold back her laughter but never tries to stifle her smile. She feels lighter when she leaves, thinks she might like it best of all, as she moves from gallery to museum and back again: from Musées d’Orsay to Rodin, from the Grand Palais to the Louvre, from de l’Orangerie to Picasso, and almost everything in between.

She separates the galleries with cafés, makes a habit of stopping in at every one that catches her eye, uses the conversations with the waitstaff to brush up on speaking. Drinks herself bloated on coffee, moves till the art starts to blur together, till impressionists blend in to surrealism become expressionism, before marking the last off her list.

She spends a day resting, puts her feet up on the balcony, remembering how calm she felt as she stared at waterlilies, and does nothing else at all. The next day she walks along the Seine, basking in the sunshine and watching the city walk on past her, realises she understands almost everything people say around her now and goes home feeling rather chuffed with herself.

She dreams of a woman that night: short dark hair and creamy white skin, talking to the other side of the room, with her back bare and facing Bernie. Bernie aches, yearns, to reach out to the woman, to touch her; sees her turn only to have her face fade behind her eyelids.

Bernie wakes up and finds her cheeks sticky and her pillow damp. Realises she’s been dreaming in French for days, weeks, even. Realises that she never once stopped dreaming of Serena.

*

She tires of walking and itches to run. Stays in Paris but starts jogging again. Runs the blocks around her flat, around and around the Jardin du Luxembourg, and back again. She ignores the stares from the other dawn risers, stays focused on the road in front of her, as she pounds on the cement in time with the beat of her music.

She enjoys going to sleep with the roads of Paris giving her something to look forward to the next day; barely manages a week until her feet feel as if they know the way to run before she’s told them which way to go. She doesn’t like the familiarity, as if this is something she does every day, something she’ll do every day into the future.

So she stops. Sleeps in. Walks towards the market. Detours to the metro, spur of the moment. Gets out in Pigalle, walks through the bustle till she finds the quieter streets, and starts jogging. Runs until the streets become hills: circles, turns, doubles back. Runs until she can’t stand to move anymore. Runs just that much more, until she comes back to a park, and stretches while the Sacré-Cœur looms overhead.

She lies down on the grass, headphones in and tuned to an audiobook; hears sentences in English for the first time in more than a month as she looks up at the clouds rolling past. She stays there till her stomach rumbles and finds a cafe nearby, looks at the menu and realises she’s ravenous so orders a banquet.

The waitress tries to catch her eye as Bernie stuffs her face, smile shy and eyelashes fluttered. Bernie doesn’t know what to do so she does nothing; just keeps eating, feeling a bit out of sorts. Finishes quickly, compliments the food, leaves a tip.

She walks out into the sunshine and takes the metro home; takes the tiny lift to the top floor, scrubs herself pink and sparkling, and eats another banquet for dinner. She sleeps better that night then she has in weeks; wakes up feeling actually rested for the first time in months.

She takes it easy the next morning, a few lengths along the Seine and home again. Takes her time in the shower, makes a trip to the markets, can’t decide on what to make for lunch; grabs an apple and decides to take a walk.

She heads towards the Tuileries, walks through the park. She sits at a bench, turns her fact to towards the sun; looks back down to earth, and watches the pigeons till her stomach grumbles. She makes her way home, crisscrossing to dart down side streets, walks past a tiny café that catches her eye, thinks she should use the excuse to dine out. Her stomach rumbles again to agree.

She walks in, smiles at the sound of the bell above the door, thinks she might fancy a drink too. Walks up to the bar, announces herself to the back of a silvering pixie cut peppered with brown wisps, opens her mouth to order a whisky neat.

The bartender turns around, hands full with drying a brandy glass, and stops dead. Bernie chokes on the words before they make it off her tongue as her heart lurches up into her throat. The sound of glass smashing fills the silence.

*

Bernie stays rooted to the spot, hands clenched white knuckle tight on the edge of the bar, as she blinks at the women in front of her.

She can’t move as Serena dashes around the bar, can’t talk as she throws her arms around Bernie, can’t stay still as she feels Serena in her arms.

She feels warm and real and here and Bernie holds her close, holds her near; nuzzles into her neck and refuses to let her fade.

“How are you—” Bernie starts as she draws back to look at Serena, before being cut off with a kiss.

Bernie’s eyes flutter shut, holding back tears, but still smiles at the hunger of Serena’s mouth. She knows Serena’s missed her just as much as she has her: can feel the fierce ache trembling through Serena’s arms, hear it in the tiny whine at the back of her throat, taste in on Serena’s tongue sliding over her.

Bernie melts into Serena’s arms, only breaking away at the sound of a throat clearing. They spring apart, breathless and flushed, and turn towards the sound to find a reasonably perturbed but highly amused man looking back at them.

Serena drops her shoulders, flutters her hands, as she stammers through an apology. “Henri, god, sorry, I wasn’t, I didn’t mean to, and I’m, I mean she’s, we’re…sorry.”

“Find another doorway to occupy,” he chides gently, soft laughter in his voice and a knowing glint in his eyes. “You can cover me tomorrow night instead.”

Serena nods, Bernie blushes, he waves them out with a smile.

Serena takes the lead, takes Bernie by the hand to lead her home, and Bernie follows close behind.

They get the metro back across the Seine. Bernie wonders how Serena knows which way to go, how she knows where Bernie lives; then turn left where she’d normally turn right and her kiss sodden brain twigs that Serena isn’t taking her home but to hers. She’s still catching up to the thought when they stops half way up the block.

“Here we are, “ Serena mumbles as she punches in a door code with her free hand.

Bernie starts. Stops. Her hand slips from Serena’s as she moves away into the building. Serena turns back, empty handed, to frown at Bernie.

“Aren’t you coming in?” Serena asks as Bernie blinks at her.

“I…I live around the corner,” Bernie mumbles, still trying to wrap her head around the fact that Serena was so close, maybe even all these weeks, and she didn’t even know.

Serena smiles, small and bright, and tilts her head. Looks at Bernie as if this was always meant to be, as if they’d always have found one another, if they’d ever even have needed to look. Bernie looks at Serena shining back at her and know she’d always have found Serena, even in this huge, big, bustling city. Knows she’d never have stopped looking once she started.

“I guess you won’t need directions to the market when I send you out for breakfast tomorrow then,” Serena whispers.

Bernie shakes her head, promises she doesn’t, feels Serena tug gently on her hand, and follows her lead inside.

*

Serena shuts the front door gently, pushes Bernie against it roughly; rakes her fingers through blonde locks and kisses her way up Bernie’s neck to her mouth. Kisses her long and hard and well.

Bernie paws at Serena, pushes her coat off, running her palms over her shirt, over her curves, under the material and over skin. She rests on Serena’s waist for a moment, clings tight; hears a rumble, and pulls away. It’s not till she notices Serena looking down at her bellybutton that she realises it’s her stomach again.

“Sorry,” Bernie giggles. “I had plans for lunch, but something more important came up.”

She smiles as Serena smirks up at her and leans forward for another kiss. Doesn’t stop until Serena pushes her away gently, takes her by the hand again, and leads her further into the apartment.

Bernie hangs back, waits at the corner of the kitchen boundary, as Serena shuffles between the tiny fridge and the hip-high bench while butter on the hotplate melts. Bernie inhales the scent of crisping bread, inhales her toastie crust first; only notices Serena barely nibbling at her own when she offers over the second half to Bernie.  

Bernie frowns, makes to push it away, until Serena pins her with a glare and chides: “You’re the one skipping meals, not me, I ate at work. Go on, eat it.”

Bernie takes the sandwich with a smile. Crunches through as Serena watches her through lowered lashes.

Bernie pops the last of it in her mouth, dusts her fingers clean, and notices the furrow in Serena’s brow. Tilts her head to the side to query.

“How did you find me?” Serena asks, blinking at Bernie with a touch of concern. “I don’t remember telling you I was near the city last time we spoke.”

“No, you didn’t,” Bernie confirms, swallows hard and confesses. “I wasn’t looking for you.”

“You weren’t?”

“Not yet.”

“Then what were—”

“Later,” Bernie cuts her off, pushes back her chair, ushers Serena up, pulls her close. Serena hums ascent, as Bernie nips at the pulse point just under her ear, and walks them backwards towards the bed.

*****

Serena traces patterns along the soft skin of Bernie’s forearm, basking in the afterglow of bodies finally sated after far too long, and stretches out her legs. Her foot pops, she hums, and breathes deep. Considers pressing her fingers harder, moving them lower, moving them into Bernie again.

Then Bernie shifts to look at her, eyes still shining and wet and puppy-wide—as if she expects Serena to disappear in front of her eyes—and the glow begins to dull. Serena knows the time to talk is now.

“You know I’m not ready to go back,” Serena admits, her voice shaking as she whispers.

“No, no, I didn’t come to get you.” Bernie’s eyes widen in panic slightly and she rolls over to rest their faces inches apart. “I came to tell you I won’t be in Holby if you go back.”

“Oh,” Serena says, bites at her bottom lip and blinks back tears. She knew hoping might not be enough, but she’d hoped all the same. “Right.”

Bernie sees the tears and keeps stumbling on her words. “No, not like that, there wasn’t anything keeping me there anymore. I wanted to tell you I wouldn’t be waiting, if you go back, unless you tell me to.”

Serena nods slightly, processing, crinkles her forehead. Leans back to study Bernie’s face. “What do you mean, nothing?”

Bernie clams up, curls in on herself, fights the urge to roll over and away from Serena. She’d thought Serena would have heard by now, assumed Ric taken it upon himself to break the news like he had last time.

“They closed down the trauma bay.” Bernie purses her lips, swallowing back the bile those words still bring. Hears Serena’s sharp inhale and reaches out to tangle their fingers together but refuses to meet Serena’s eyes. “I’m sorry, you worked so hard and we built it together and I promised I’d take care of it and then I ruined everything.” She looks up at Serena, keeps her grip tight, and explains. Her voice goes hagged towards the end; she breathes deep, feels her eyes burn. “I’m so sorry.”

Bernie doesn’t know what kind of response she’s expecting, but Serena hissing that they can go back, fight till they get it it back, like she’s ready to use her fists while her eyes glinting steel is certainly not it.

“No, Serena, don’t, please,” she pleads, reaching out to stop Serena getting out of bed. “It’s done, they’ve already taken it, please,” she begs as Serena lays down again and entwines their hands together again. “It’s gone, and I don’t want you to go back and fight only to end up exhausted and then leave again,” she whispers, voice harsh and heavy.

“Okay, okay,” Serena hushes her, slides closer to bury her face in Bernie’s neck. Feels tears sting in her eyes when she hears Bernie whisper, “I’m not sure I could bear it,” and pulls the blanket over the two of them. Feels Bernie’s limb wrap around her and squeezes back tighter, enjoys the feeling of being so close again after so long apart.

Serena lets her mind wander as they relax into the mattress, pawing lightly at different patches of Bernie’s skin as fingertips tickle the small of her back, before wondering what to do next and where. Has a thought that falls out her mouth before she thinks it through.

“Why don’t we travel?” Serena asks, brightens at the idea of having someone with her again, thinks she’s ready to have the company again. “Europe, that’s what I was planning next.”

She pulls back to smile at Bernie. Feels her smile fade as Bernie shakes her head.

“I don’t want to mess up your plans...” Bernie trails off and works her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “Or get in your way.” She breaths deep before charging on. “I can see the changes, the help being away from Holby and, everything else, has been, and I don’t want to ruin that.”

“You won’t. You can’t.” Serena smooths a hand over Bernie’s cheek and smiles sadly. “I needed to be on my own, to do this on my own, but I have. And I’ve done enough on my own to start thinking about the next step.” The corners of her mouth curl as Bernie turns her head and presses a kiss against her palm. “There’s space enough for you, for us, in my plans, if you want to join.”

Bernie’s eyes dart from corner to corner, mostly convinced by the look on Serena’s face but still apprehensive, worried that venturing across Europe together is too much to ask of either of them. She mulls over the idea for a solid minute before saying it out loud.

Serena nods, thoughtful, and stews for a minute. Thinks off all the things she still has to do away from Bernie. Think all the things she wants to do with her too. Thinks of a way to have both.

“What if,” Serena starts. “What if we plan separate trips, but meet sometimes, in places we both want to see anyway. Do it alone and together?”

Bernie breathes, relaxes, nods. “Where do you want to go together then?”

“Kiev, maybe?” Serena ventures, a touch hopeful. “I want to see all the work you did while you were away, if you’d like to show me?”

Bernie’s face goes blank, frozen, before a smile blooms bright on her lips. “I’d like that.” Her whole face shines and she cups Serena’s cheek in her hand and leans forward. “Very much.”

Serena smiles as Bernie mumbles against her lips, sinks into the kiss, and decides to leave planning till the morning.


End file.
